


Advantage

by valiantfindekano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:31:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon and Maedhros, and proceedings in their relationship while Maedhros recovers from Angband. (Nearly a PWP, but with more character development than that term implies.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advantage

It was a reluctant goodbye that Maedhros currently offered. He did a fair job of hiding it, in his defence; he hid all his emotions well these days, a change that had come so gradually that Fingon could not place the exact moment when his cousin had learnt to do it.

“You’ll return, though?” Fingon prompted. The question was accompanied by a touch of fingers to the inside of Maedhros’ wrist, which he’d captured moments before in a very loose embrace.

“I’m only going across the lake,” Maedhros replied, amusement colouring his tone. But their settlements had drifted apart lately, and there was talk of leaving from both encampments. The Fëanorians would not stay, and the defences already began to rise in the mountains to the north and east in Hithlum.

It was all for the best, Fingon would readily admit. Politics before love, as ever, and the responsibilities of lordship would consume them both before too long.

“You run out of excuses to see me,” he pointed out.

“Lies. I have more than I need.” There followed a brief scuffle as Maedhros detangled his hand from Fingon’s, and he brought it up to brush a bit of hair away from his younger cousin’s face. “And I know that if Fingon the Valiant stated a desire to visit, none would stop him. I am not the only one who has any mobility.”

Fingon grinned. “No. But with my brother and sister still in Nevrast, we’re offered much more privacy here than with your family.”

It had been less crucial lately that they speak alone. They discussed recoveries and politics, stone quarries and veins of ore, how to secure farmland—all topics that secretly thrilled Fingon for their novelty. But he’d thought, once the worst of their arguments had passed, that they might return to intimacy. It had come easily once; a compliment would make both of them smile and lean in for a touch of lips.

Now compliments seemed to make both of them give noncommittal nods and turn away, and kisses were things that had to be staged. It got easier each time, but even a span of years was not enough to make him forget how it used to be.

Maedhros looked down at Fingon, as if he was studying the distance between them. Then, with his wounded arm, he suddenly drew his cousin closer; his hand, still toying with Fingon’s hair, cupped his cheek, and the next moment their lips crashed together.

It was not the most romantic kiss. Maedhros’ lips were rough and thin, and Fingon’s were already worn from his own gnawing teeth, having taken to biting when he felt anxious. At least they had relieved some of the lingering hesitations that had plagued their kisses recently.

“I haven’t taken advantage of that,” Maedhros explained when they parted for air.   

“Only,” Fingon answered, stealing another quick kiss, “because you were too impatient--”

“—to leave the garden last week. Yes.”

That had not lasted long. In the shelter of trees and hedges, Fingon had felt little shame in pleasuring Maedhros with his hands and mouth. _To help you adjust,_ he had said, and Maedhros hadn’t shoved him away when he knelt between his cousin’s knees. He would not readily forget the sullen silence that had followed, however, or the dark look that had settled over Maedhros’ features and remained through dinner.

“I could do it again,” Fingon offered, settling one hand against Maedhros’ hip. The other balanced against his shoulder—leverage so he could reach the right height to meet every kiss.

Maedhros responded with kisses. Wet, insistent, and still not what Fingon was used to—but they did the job, a tingling heat starting to spread beneath his skin. They could build it up; more kisses, and rutting against one another still fully clothed until they climaxed, like they’d done in Tirion before they willed closer connection. It had sufficed. It could suffice now. And in a few more years’ time, if Maedhros returned, maybe then he would be strong enough in mind and body for a full union again.

His knee was nudging its way between Fingon’s legs, though, and the younger lacked the restraint to avoid pushing against it. At first he tried to make it seem accidental, lest Maedhros accuse him of undue lustfulness, but for once it seemed that his cousin was determined to carry on.

He could feel himself growing hard beneath Maedhros’ touch, and he was ready to curse himself for taking too much. At first he thought he was mistaken—but that was unmistakably Maedhros’ hand slipping beneath his clothing, sliding downwards.

Fingon moaned. His breath left him. Yes, he wanted to say, yes, and more. But this would be the point where Maedhros would draw back and apologise, if previous experience was a fair judge.

He was not wrong.

“Fingon.” Maedhros’ hand retreated, coming to rest against Fingon’s waist.

Always _Fingon,_ since Thangorodrim, as if _Findekáno_ (or any of the affectionate variants he’d once preferred) wasn’t a name he was willing to remember. It was part of an accent he’d picked up, Fingon gathered, from too much time among the Sindarin thralls. Not enough to undo centuries of childhood in fairer places, but it lingered even when he spoke wholly in Ñoldorin.

“I’m sorry,” Fingon answered, bowing his head in apology. He moved to step away, but Maedhros’ grip tightened around his waist, drawing him back in.

“I don’t remember what desire is meant to feel like.” The confession came slowly and quietly, but it hit Fingon forcefully.

Uneasily, he considered the implications of that statement; it bore relation, no doubt, to the finer details of Angband’s prisons that Maedhros refused to speak of outright. So how was Fingon meant to answer? He must have gawped like a fish at that, searching for something to explain it. His mind went instantly to poetry, but he rejected those thoughts right away: Maedhros would only laugh.

“What do you feel?” he ventured to ask. Something, else there would not be a reciprocal bulge in his cousin’s trousers after their greedy exchange of kisses.

Maedhros was silent.

“Nothing?” Fingon bit his lip.

Fortunately, Maedhros did not reply in the affirmative. “Too many things. I do not know how to sort through them or tell what begins where.”

Singling out desire, then, from the torrent of other emotions caught up in it. Anger, regret, love, respect, resentment. Among others. It was maybe flattering that Maedhros thought Fingon was any better at knowing the difference anymore.

“Describe your desire to me,” Maedhros suggested. He sounded almost shy in saying it, which Fingon wondered about—had he not had his hand down the front of his robes a moment ago, prompting this whole discussion? Not to mention liaisons past--

But Fingon balked.

“I don’t know how,” he protested, mind suddenly racing. In words? Did Maedhros mean for that? He didn’t know—he’d never thought of it in that way. Unless it was in the form of suggestive poems found in the depths of the library, but Maedhros laughed at those. He wouldn’t appreciate it now, when he’d just confessed his own disability to understand.

“Your mind,” Fingon said quietly. “Let me in.”

There was a pause.

It had been useful once to gauge reactions, to exchange thoughts soundlessly. Neither of them was skilled in the practice, as some of their cousins were, but with some effort, they’d managed to convey feelings—sometimes accidentally, when the feeling was strong enough.

“No,” Maedhros said.

“Let me try,” Fingon insisted. After a moment, Maedhros relented.

Fingon reached out. Where words failed him, feeling would not; the last time their minds had been linked as one was back in Aman, but it seemed fitting that they should seek it again while they meant to join their bodies.

In Maedhros’ delirium, he’d mentioned a great and consuming cold. He might have referred to the chill of Angband’s dungeons, or the wind against the mountain where he hung, but Fingon recalled nightmares too. Lashing pain, which he had blamed on the icy winds, and gnawing, crushing, and searing. They had both suffered, though Fingon was not insensitive enough to think that his experience could ever equal—

He recoiled, nearly losing his balance as Maedhros’ mind closed to him.

“Sorry,” Maedhros breathed. He had the brief appearance of a startled horse—nostrils flared, eyes wide and white. “You shouldn’t—You know what I told you.”

_My head is not a nice place._ Yes, Fingon remembered. “Let me try again,” he requested. He refocused, imagining himself easing into the connection this time. He was still met with resistance, but after a second… yes, _there_.

Desire was not so hard to explain by feeling. It was excitement and warmth. Anticipation. Need.

And love. That was not so easy to explain physically, but Fingon tried; it was the tightness in his chest and the poorly concealed longing he’d harboured for years, in various manifestations. Maybe it was frayed—ragged, in a way.

He’d never think of describing desire without it.

Evidently something worked, however. Their lips had met before the mental link faded, and Fingon was left with warring sensations of gratitude, obligation… was that admiration?... and hints of other, stranger emotions. They fled quickly, however, replaced by feelings more familiar.

Maedhros tugged against one of his braids, causing Fingon’s head to turn, and then there were lips against his jaw, up towards his ear, down to his neck above the collar of his shirt.

Fingon barely had time to issue a reminder. “If you change your mind,” he gasped, bucking forward, “then you, ah, are welcome to stop—I will not fault you—nor force you--”

His robes were suffocating.

Buttons Maedhros managed one-handed, but it went slowly. Fingon was eager to help, however, and he shrugged out of his robe and his under-shirt with minimal difficulty. Boots and stockings he kicked off, while Maedhros unlaced the front of his leggings; they slid down, resting low on his hips, and Fingon paused so that he could give the same attentions to Maedhros’ clothing.

The hand stopped him, though. “No.” Maedhros shook his head, and the kiss he placed against Fingon’s cheek seemed apologetic.

It did nothing to lessen the younger one’s confusion. “Why?”

“Scars.” Maedhros leaned forward, and the next thing Fingon knew, he was being pushed backwards. His legs hit the side of the bed, and Maedhros toppled them both against it, his weight (still significantly less than it had been _last time_ ) settled against him.

Conveniently, the motion stole Fingon’s breath, though he could not settle on the right words with which to reply. He’d seen the scars. He’d seen them when they were raw, bloody wounds, and had helped the healers tend to each cut with salves and bandages. Why hide them, then? Was there still an element of trust that was absent between them?

Fingon closed his eyes, gasping at the firm kisses Maedhros was currently placing on his throat. Of course something was still missing—he would be a fool to think otherwise. This was still the man who betrayed him at Losgar. Whatever version of events he chose to believe, Maedhros had still left him stranded, and he was in no hurry to explain away his actions either, years after the event and years since he’d come to Mithrim.

Now was not the time to worry about it, however. That time was before luring Maedhros into his bed, and having neglected to pursue the matter, he had no right to complain now.

Oh, _Eru--_ no, he was not complaining. Had Maedhros always held such a fascination for his throat and neck? There were teeth scraping over his pulse, and Fingon parted his legs so that his cousin could rest between them. In truth, having velvet and satin against his bare skin was not such a bad feeling, and…

And maybe it was nothing to do with trust. Who was he to criticise, if Maedhros was more comfortable hiding his wounds? If that took away an insecurity and allowed him to relax and give in to desire again, then so be it; if he suddenly voiced a preference for nakedness, then he should have it. Any desire he spoke of, Fingon would give.

He would have loved to knot his fingers in copper hair, but he didn’t know whether or not that would still bring Maedhros unpleasant memories. Instead, he let one hand travel down to unlace his cousin’s leggings. Before he could slide his hand inside, Maedhros was already pushing into his touch—and there! A pleased moan, though he was clearly trying to restrain it.

Fingon adjusted his position so he could reach up and kiss him. Their lips came together roughly, and in a movement they’d once had mastery of, their hips angled together. Slowly, the two ground against one another, heat building between their legs. The occasional gasp or sigh would leave one of them, while tentative hands explored between their bodies.

“You’re shaking,” Fingon noticed, suddenly concerned.

“I’m fine,” Maedhros insisted. As if to prove his point, he placed a few kisses in quick succession down Fingon’s chest, hovering above his stomach for a moment. But then he made his way back up, briefly teasing a nipple with his lips before nuzzling into the crook of Fingon’s neck. Then he sighed.

Fingon kissed the top of his head. “Only as far as you want,” he reminded him.

“That is not the problem,” Maedhros answered. His position would have been almost childlike, if it were not for the indecent circumstances and their combined arousal. “I want more. I want to give you more.” The sudden tilt of his leg against Fingon’s body could not have been accidental; Fingon arched slightly, lips parting with the brief shot of pleasure it caused.

“There are alternatives,” Fingon stated. If Maedhros would consent to kisses, embraces, and a tangle of legs as Fingon pressed against him, it would be enough.

Maedhros looked unconvinced, but there was a determined light in his eyes that had not been present before. “Do you keep oils in this room?”

“I keep some for my hair on the desk,” Fingon informed him, moving his legs so that Maedhros could manoeuvre away. His cousin managed it with only a bit of difficulty, and Fingon wondered how well-defined his muscles would be beneath his shirt. What irony, that they were attempting a moment of intimacy, and he could not even see a bare arm! But he remembered the scars; those would not have faded, even if it had been years since the wounds had healed. He caught the occasional glimpse of long, white lines marring his skin, and though he was curious, he refrained from asking Maedhros to indulge his morbid fascination.

It was a moment before Maedhros found the vial he was looking for, but when he turned, he was smiling. More often than not these days, his smile looked more like a grimace, but Fingon was learning to grow a certain affection for it.

“You’re depraved,” Maedhros told him when he crawled back to the bed. Fingon sat up, taking the vial from his hand and uncorking it.

“Do you…?” He motioned towards Maedhros’ hand.

It was a second before the elder answered. “No. You should…”

Ai, that was a blush, and unfair that Maedhros should look so endearing while asking Fingon to prepare himself. Fingon’s face already had spots of colour high on his cheeks, but he was certain his blush deepened with the request.

The sensations of cool oil and slick fingers were unusual at first, but Fingon persisted, calming himself with the slow, open-mouthed kisses Maedhros initiated.  It wasn’t long before he gave up on any remaining sense of propriety, and grabbing the vial of oil, he upended it over his hand. Some of it leaked through his fingers as he reached for Maedhros, but he was past caring about the state of the bedsheets.  

“Turn over.” The demand came soon after Fingon’s hand retreated, and he complied, flipping so his stomach lay against the sheets. Maedhros grabbed his hip, steadying himself, and Fingon heard him take a long, slow breath. Even turning his head, he could not see, so he closed his eyes and waited.

Maedhros was slow to ease himself in. At first, Fingon tensed, unused to the sensation, but he calmed his breathing. It did not escape his notice that Maedhros’ mind, previously open to Fingon’s searching, had suddenly closed itself off; the implications of that were not pleasing.

Still, the last thing he wanted now was to worry about the darker depths of his lover’s thoughts. Maedhros would sense the change. They’d both be left unsatisfied then.

“Are you,” Maedhros murmured against Fingon’s ear, leaving another question unfinished. It was clear enough what he meant, though; he leant fully forward, and Fingon felt cloth against his back, the press of buttons next to his spine.

He arched his back and moved his hips, humming as he adjusted to the feelings. “Yes.”

They started slowly. Maedhros pressed the occasional kiss to Fingon’s shoulders and neck, which the younger soon worked out to be apologies for each stroke that missed its mark and left him gasping in discomfort rather than pleasure.

Maedhros was the one trembling, though, and Fingon suspected it was not wholly out of ecstasy.

He climaxed first, under the dual sensation of a calloused hand stroking him in time with each thrust. It still rushed over him in waves when Maedhros’ teeth suddenly sank into his shoulder, momentarily turning his panting into a yelp.

“Did that help?” Fingon eventually asked, once they’d disentangled their limbs. He stretched out on his back, now supported by a bank of pillows, and in the lingering haze, he’d revelled in Maedhros’ gentle attentions. Maedhros had collapsed next to him, though, dishevelled and exhausted.

The look did not suit him anymore, Fingon considered.

“A little.” Maedhros’ expression was unreadable when he replied.

“Mmh.” _Better than nothing._

After a moment, the elder spoke again. “I was terrible, wasn’t I?”

Fingon’s lips turned up. “Still better than the first time,” he assured his cousin. “Better than most of our drunken fumbles in Tirion.”

“And leagues worse than the sober ones.” Maedhros frowned, but it was not the deep expression that left his forehead creased; he merely looked contemplative, as much as the weak light allowed Fingon to see.

“You’ll learn again.”

Their kiss had a little more conviction this time. 


End file.
